


I Became an ADA and All I Got Was Drugged at a Party

by akimikono



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Amy Elliott Dunne - Freeform, Barba is a caffeine addict, Barson if you squint harder, Blood, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Drug Use, F/M, Gen, Gnomes, Gone Girl references, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, LSD, Marijuana, Masks, Mentions of Abbie Carmichael, Mentions of Jack McCoy, Mentions of Lennie Briscoe, Munch x Cabot if you squint, Murder, Mushrooms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nonsense, Not Serious, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, The Author Regrets Nothing, but in a funny way, kinda??, mascot suits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23600869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akimikono/pseuds/akimikono
Summary: A stuffy, boring ADA function takes a dramatic turn when Munch shows up and decides to have fun with everyone. Unfortunately for him, and everyone else, things don't go quite as planned. Luckily, Alexandra Cabot is there to hold him accountable.Very much a crack fic!
Relationships: David Haden & Olivia Benson, Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr. & Amanda Rollins, John Munch & Alexandra Cabot, John Munch & Odafin "Fin" Tutuola, Rafael Barba & Olivia Benson
Kudos: 7





	I Became an ADA and All I Got Was Drugged at a Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rafaheadcanons](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rafaheadcanons).



> Clearly I have never done drugs. But I tried to do some research before I wrote this. This is just a dumb crack fic based on a prompt and convo I had with someone on Tumblr (rafaheadcanons) which turned into a full request. This is much longer than it needs to be. It was funny and then it wasn't, and then it was funny again, so hopefully you all enjoy it!

It all started with an invitation to the world’s most boring event for all the high-ranking attorneys in New York City. Most of them were assistant district attorneys, past assistant district attorneys (some of whom had lost their jobs due to less-than-savory circumstances), and future assistant district attorneys (who had no idea that they would be given that job since they hadn’t gotten that far ahead in the script yet).

Now, the invitations were nice enough. Something that the perfectly psychotic and true-blue New Yorker Amy Elliott Dunne would have used herself to craft those little clues to her husband during her rousing game of “I’m pretending to be a doting wife giving you a traditional scavenger hunt, meanwhile I’m framing you for my murder”. How was it described? Right. Thick, creamy paper. So thick and so creamy that the ink didn’t sit on top of the page, and it didn’t soak through it like some cheap cardstock bought at a Walmart Neighborhood Market. No, this stuff was good. Like, _assistant district attorney-level_ good. The words seemed to be engraved onto the paper, like they had actually paid to have someone stamp each letter into the fine weave of the paper. They probably had.

Attorneys were so pretentious.

However, the contents of the invitations were something to behold. The traditional boring blather about the occasion, the time, the location, etc. Blah, blah, blah. It didn’t matter, it was the same every year. What was different this year, however, was the little note at the bottom. Plus one. Everyone was allowed to bring one person of their choice. Now it stood to reason that most of them would bring their spouses or the person they were dating, but not everyone had the luxury of being obnoxiously in love (or pretending to be). So it also stood to reason that “plus one” could mean that literally _anyone_ could show up. A sibling, a parent, an ex, a Good Samaritan, the winner of last week’s Bachelor Auction, the homeless lady who lived on Ninth Street and fed pigeons. Literally. Anyone.

The invitations also said that entertainment would be provided, but it didn’t say by who or what. This, again, could have been anything. It could have been anyone listed from the “plus one” category. Apparently it hadn’t been decided yet, or it was supposed to be a big surprise. Which was strange, because attorneys — in general, and by the letter of the law — _hate_ surprises. They do not want any surprises in court, from witnesses or the defense. Surprises mean unpreparedness and unpreparedness means looking foolish and looking foolish means losing the case.

Attorneys didn’t lose cases. Not the Assistant District Attorneys of Manhattan. In some weird self-important clause written down thousands of years ago ( _probably_ by Jack McCoy or even Lennie Briscoe, both of whom were old enough to have written it thousands of years ago), _Assistant District Attorneys from New York did not lose cases._

It also mentioned that suits were requested, but not necessary. They wanted to have a “light and fun atmosphere”, while still maintaining the “professional and respectable approachability that an ADA affords the public”. Whatever that meant. It was just going to be a room full of stuffy, haughty attorneys with too much money to spend and not enough time to spend it.

Oh, and their Plus Ones.

And the entertainment. Whoever that was.

So by the time the function actually rolled around, there was enough time to wildly misinterpret the invitations and back the organizers into such a deep corner, there was no one way anyone was coming out unscathed.

* * *

Surprisingly, it started off pretty tame. Everyone arrived mostly on time, gathered their name tags at the front desk, and headed up to the ballroom which had been reserved for this night. There was supposed to be some sort of speech given at the beginning of the night and one halfway through, a few booths set up for people to discuss their specific brand of politic with other people, and food and drink tables lining the walls. It was set up to be the perfectly boring night everyone expected it to be.

Things got a little interesting when the Plus Ones started arriving. As expected, the first couple of people who arrived were spouses or close friends. Maybe too close of friends. _Susan from Tax Law looked a little too comfortable with her friend Robert, which was pretty weird considering everyone knew she was married to a schoolteacher named Henry and hey that’s starting to look like a problem for HR._ But it wasn’t anyone’s business. Aside from the boring spouses and not-spouses-but-something-fishy-is-going-on, there were the occasional rival attorney looking to upstage everyone else (really, who invited them? Why? What brand of sadism do you subscribe to? No one cares if Dale is a great Personal Injury lawyer and would make a _great_ addition to this team, seriously, _no one cares_ ), and maybe a few adult children of the oldest attorneys who somehow still managed to cling to life despite numerous attempts on their lives by various people (most of whom were in the same room at the moment!). Why Adam “I’m Going to Stay a D.A. for the Next Century” Schiff (no, not _that_ one) was still alive was a literal mystery to everyone in the building. That dude was like a million years old and was the personal enemy of almost every attorney at the DA’s office, why was he still invited to these things? Who let him in the building? Was security not briefed?

Then came the third little wave of Plus Ones. This one was full of people no one really expected. Judges and cops. For some unknown reason, Alexandra Cabot had invited Elizabeth Donnelly to the event. Perhaps because Donnelly had been a lawyer before. Maybe because they were both stern-but-fair women in a field dominated by rowdy, pompous men. It was probably because they were both blonde and deserved better from the series.

Rafael Barba had invited Olivia Benson, since they had become friends during his tenure as their ADA and she was legit the only person Barba could stand throughout the entire precinct. Really, why was everyone so annoying to him? The lawyers, too. If he was stuck in this place for an evening, he wanted at least _one_ friendly face to help him drudge through the speeches, the endless rhetoric that everyone had hoped to escape _for just one night, please God, one night_ , and the subpar refreshments.

Casey Novak had invited Sonny Carisi. Why? No one knew. They didn’t even really know each other before, until a few months prior when they met during a cannoli-eating contest in Central Park and discovered a mutual love for ugly sweaters, cheesy 80s movies, and being given dual roles in previous episodes of _Law & Order_ as perpetrators mere seasons before being cast as series regulars, featured in the title cards and everything.

Peter Stone didn’t get the character development he needed so he just invited the entertainment, since that’s what he was put in charge of in the first place anyway. Poor, poor, Peter. His one chance to invite a date and he invites the entertainment, who was already scheduled to come. You sweet, dumb man.

The other ADAs were there too. Sonya Paxton, whose Plus One was her AA sponsor because, well, smart choice. Not that there was any booze at this snorefest. And the other ones like Gillian Hardwicke, Kim Greylek, and Jo Marlowe — the ones who were completely forgettable and were either disliked entirely because of their revolving-door status as ADA or people just didn’t understand them. Their Plus Ones were each other since none of them were on the show long enough to be shipped with anyone, not even in a fanfic. C’mon ladies, even _Sonya_ managed to bring a date. Mikka Von was there even though she only had a stint as an ADA for, like, one day, _one literal day_. But she’s beautiful so she’s allowed. Sherri West was also there, and the narrator actually had to go through a list of all the ADAs because they literally did not remember this one, not from a single episode, but she was blonde and serious-looking so she got to join the Cool Girl Group with Donnelly and Cabot and probably Amy Elliott Dunne, the ultimate Cool Girl. Michael Cutter managed to make an appearance, looking snazzy and too beautiful for a spin-off series, so it was shortly after introductions that he grabbed a mini quiche and exited stage left.

How many more freaking ADAs were there? One for every season? We are already 1,500 words into this and we haven’t even gotten to the party. Good Lord.

David Haden showed up with Rollins because he heard Olivia was going with Barba and he wanted to make her jealous, which really didn’t matter because Olivia and Barba aren’t a thing and no one ever shipped Haden with Rollins, and the narrator isn’t even sure anyone ever shipped Haden with Olivia, but yet there they were having one big “my date is better than your date” contest. (We all knew Olivia was going to win that one, anyway. I mean, have you _seen_ Rafael Barba? I rest my case.) Abbie Carmichael was asked to appear but she was too busy being gorgeous with her flawless skin and shiny curls and she had been swept up in her own police show where she was a main star and a detective, so really, who was the winner here?

Okay, that covers the ADAs and now the exhausted narrator can move onto the actual function. As stated earlier, it was boring, very boring, and there was nothing to do except talk to other attorneys or their Plus Ones, drink lukewarm refreshments, and wait for the entertainment to show up. Somehow, someway, Munch was also there. He hadn’t been a detective for a long time, but some of these ADAs hadn’t even been _alive_ for a long time, so he gets a pass. Someone invited him (he probably rode in on the coattails of Carisi as _his_ Plus One, since, you know, he eventually becomes ADA, as narrator mentioned at the beginning, as this party was also for _future ADAs_ who didn’t know yet that they would be ADAs). Actually, upon further inspection, it made a great deal of sense for Munch to be there, since he did get a job at the DA’s office and the narrator had simply forgotten that until they were editing this section and felt like a fool. Anyway. This is getting confusing. This is why you don’t screw with timelines and crap. Looking at you Marvel.

So this very boring party continued for quite some time, and the people (no longer attorneys, but more like puppets in ugly, expensive suits) moved from group to group, trying to find some sort of meaning in all the endless conversation. At least in the courtroom, all their babbling was working toward a goal — winning the case. Here, their voices merely echoed off the wood-paneled walls and came back over their ears, sounding foreign and awkward. Who were they trying to impress? Who were they trying to outsmart? No one wanted to be there and the waning food and drink, despite how unremarkable they were, were making things worse. People were thirsty and they were hungry and they were _bored_. That was a recipe for quite a few things. The worst of them was rioting. Mobs. Burning down the ballroom and storming a local Five Guys and overloading them with orders they couldn’t possibly fulfill with their little hamburger-flipping hands and sleep-lacking brains. Someone please, have mercy on the Five Guys workers.

More likely, however, was that everyone whined about being bored and then they all went home, changed into pajamas, and went to bed. Not as dramatic but still disappointing. Everyone dressing up and wasting their time to come out only to be bored half to death, and worked the rest of the way to death the next morning? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _right_.

That’s why one particular guest decided to take matters into his own hands and fix things. This particular guest was Munch. This is what we call an extremely convenient plot device. A better author would have called it foreshadowing. Now Munch had more than his share of boring government functions and had come up with his own way of making them interesting. Seeing as how Munch had everything he needed to make this evening interesting, it could be concluded that,

A) Munch knew ahead of time that this would be a boring event and brought things with him just in case.

B) Munch _always_ carries these items with him to spice up events, which makes him an infinitely more interesting character than his _lack of screentime the last five seasons BEFORE his departure would lead you to_ _believe._

C) the narrator didn’t want to have Munch evaluate the situation, leave to retrieve the items, and come back since that would take too much time and they would rather fill that time with a pointless backstory and useless quiz.

D) All of the above.

The answer was D). And now we are back to Amy Elliott Dunne territory.

So while everyone was distracted by the bad food and the entertainment, which had _finally_ shown up and were trying to set up their equipment on the stage, Munch decided to take matters into his own hands and went over to the refreshment table. This one held two large glass beverage dispensers and a communal pot of coffee, continuously bubble-bubble-bubbling out the barely-caffeinated beverage into the glass carafe. One of the beverage dispensers was full of ice water and one was full of lemonade. None of this really mattered in the scheme of things, but it helps to add to the story. Since this was a mostly-private event, there was no real need for security inside the ballroom and there was no reason to believe that anyone would tamper with the food, drinks, or the only two exits in the room. However, now that people knew Not That Adam Schiff, The Other Adam Schiff was there, there was some suspicion that one or two casualties might occur. Yet this still didn’t spur anyone to keep an eye on the booths and certainly not on the decorated detective who did not even remotely try to be inconspicuous with his actions.

He pulled out a small plastic baggy filled with small capsules, which could have been easily mistaken for any sort of vitamin, if you lived under a rock your entire life and had no idea what a vitamin looked like and took people at face value when they showed you suspicious bags of unmarked capsules and said, “Hey, these are my daily vitamins, please never mention them again”. He planned to break open these capsules and pour their contents into the drinks at the refreshment table, but unfortunately they would be too noticeable in the water. _Fortunately_ , the water was not the most popular drink at the moment since no one really went to a boring government event to _drink water_. They were all fighting to stay awake, so Munch knew that he had to pour at least half a dozen of the capsules into the coffee pot. A few more went into the lemonade jar and then the baggy went back into his pocket. He poured himself a cup of uncontaminated water and slunk to the corner to watch events unfurl, trying not to draw attention to himself.

To no one’s surprise (well it would be a surprise later once they figured out what was happening, but since no one knew that their beverages had been drugged, no one was suspicious so no one was surprised), the first victim was the Coffee Addict himself. Rafael Barba. Even if it was the blandest, weakest, most acidic coffee in the world, Barba had to have some just to stay caffeinated. So he gravitated toward the drinks table and filled a paper cup with the coffee and sipped at it. He made a face, but Munch knew that Barba would assume the aftertaste was from burnt coffee beans and poorly filtered tap water. Then Munch watched as Olivia sauntered over and Barba poured her a cup of coffee as well. Not even five minutes and he’d already watched two unsuspecting people down the THC-laced coffee. Pretty soon, a few other people began wandering over, filling cups with coffee or lemonade. While the band was finishing setting up, everyone took the time to refill on drinks and food and shuffle about the dance floor, wondering when the nightmare of this conference would end.

Munch was wondering when all the fun would _start_.

Then, slowly, it did start. It started with a few people moving back to the snack table, filling up their plates again even though everyone knew the food wasn’t _that_ good. Then there were a few people who were seeming to enjoy the entertainment more than they should have, considering they were a mediocre band with untuned guitars and a drum kit that looked like it had been bought and sold so many times, it wasn’t secondhand, it was like, fifteenhand. Some of the guests milled closer to the stage, like they were actually excited to see these people play. Olivia was one of them, actually shoving her shoulder into another woman to take her place near the front. Barba had managed to snag a place up front as well, but he was so close that he had his hands planted on the stage floor and was gawking up at the musicians.

Munch watched in actual surprise when, after only two songs, the band took a break and disappeared behind the heavy curtains for several minutes. More people were beginning to act out of their character, staring off into the distance, giggling loudly, talking in hushed tones with one another while they cast fervent glances over their shoulders. Actually, that last one was pretty typical for attorneys. Arguing could be heard from behind the curtain and some cursing. Finally, after what seemed like fifteen minutes, the band returned. Four of the five members were dressed in very large gnome outfits. Not just that they had on pointy hats and fake beards. Oh no, that would be too simple. It would almost make sense if they were wearing that. Instead, they were wearing full-on mascot suits — a plump fabric-and-wire body, a giant structured head with a mesh opening for their real eyes and mouth, even oversized, floppy shoes. They looked completely ridiculous but Munch had to admit that it was impressive that they managed to pick up their instruments and keep playing. And truthfully, now that four of them were dressed in the gnome suits, the fifth one — still in jeans and a t-shirt — looked downright stupid since he didn’t match the others. Though it did pose the question, where did his outfit go? Did they forget to pack it? Was it still in their van? Not that it would be easy to miss … How do you just forget to pack a giant, six-foot-tall gnome suit? Also, it stood to note, that Munch had no idea why these men were volunteering to wear giant gnome suits since he hadn’t spiked their drinks at all. Perhaps it was just a merry happenstance, maybe whoever had hired them had already done their own pill-popping before the night had started because _who in their right mind hired a band of gnomes as entertainment for attorneys?_

But all of this was drowned out by the chorus of _ooooh_ and unusual laughter that rose up from the crowd. It wasn’t a laugh of disbelief or surprise, like they normally would have given, it was a too-relaxed too-entertained laugh. Some of the people surged forward and joined the steadily growing group at the very front of the stage. A chant began ringing out over the group, though it was only from a few people and they weren’t saying anything that sounded like real words. Other voices also rose above the music, but they made even less sense. At least to Munch, but that was part of the plan. Some woman called out to the group, “I like your spring Santa outfits!” The few people in the group who hadn’t yet had the pleasure of drinking any of the coffee or lemonade could be heard muttering a not-so-quiet, “What the hell?”

Those people were shoved to the back of the group gathering at the stage, so they took that opportunity to get their drinks and mingle around the snack table, asking themselves and each other what was going on. The musicians kept on playing despite half the room thinking they were stoned, and the other half actually being stoned. Kudos to them. Some of the people in the crowd around the stage were becoming rowdier, shouting out things that only made sense to them.

“Does that tiger always wear a dress?”

“Your beard looks like a firestarter, sir. Do you keep it in your flour bag?”

“Mount Everest was a good president, but I like you guys better.”

Even Munch, though he was enjoying the spectacle, was beginning to wonder what was happening. He had wanted people to loosen up, and while this was entertaining, this wasn’t the usual reaction people had to these types of pills. Perhaps he just didn’t know these people as well as he thought (not that he really bothered to get to know any of them that well), but it was teetering the line between entertaining and concerning. There were a few people in the crowd who had begun to sway, or rather dip almost violently from one side to another, staring up with huge eyes at the musicians, then waddling backward and staring up at the ceiling, mouths agape. A couple of people slowly sank to the ground, gawking at the walls. One person collapsed onto their knees and stared silently at their hands for several minutes.

Munch watched as Hardwicke, Marlowe, and Greylek all formed a circle and held hands, staring at each other with wide eyes, nodding solemnly like they had come up with a resolute decision that would change the course of their careers forever. Yet, they did nothing. They just stood there, off to the side, staring and nodding and holding hands.

Poor, poor Sonya — who had been doing very well at her AA meetings and the narrator was very proud of her, she really did deserve better overall as a character — had been adamant about not drinking any alcohol and staying away from anything that would tempt her back into a reckless lifestyle that had almost cost her her job. Unfortunately, she had been _so_ adamant that she had stuck with water (which had not been contaminated) and coffee (which had been). She was standing on one of the snack tables, clutching a stack of red Solo cups to her chest, staring at Hardwicke, Marlow, and Greylek, pointing and sobbing. “I just wanna Pong,” she kept saying. “I wanna Pong.” Her AA sponsor was at a loss for words, half because he was trying to deal with her and half because he had also downed a cup and a half of the coffee.

Mikka Von, though beautiful and tragic considering she only got one episode and lost her job because she literally sent the dimwitted defense attorney on a vacation _during a trial, gurl what is you doing??_ , was standing by the heavy double wooden doors and staring at the brass doorknobs. She would place her hand on one, run her fingers over it, and then stare at the tips of her fingers. Then she would twist the other, open the door just slightly, peek out, then close the door and nod to herself. The cycle repeated itself over and over again. Touch, stare, open, peek, close, nod. Sherri West had been quietly gazing at one of the men sitting at one of the booths, who had not been out of his seat and had not drunk anything. She stared at him like a strange unblinking alien child, and he was nervously but determinedly giving his pitch. When Sherri heard the ballroom doors open and close, she looked over, saw Mikka, and wordlessly went to join her. She stared at the doors, running her palms over the patterns in the wood. Then she planted a gentle kiss to the door and patted it again, muttering, “That’s a good salad bowl. I knew you were the real dragon man, the way you look so blue and five.”

Haden had abandoned Rollins and was lying, spread eagle, on the floor, crying. Rollins was squatting under the drink table, running her fingers through her hair, humming a song that wasn’t much of a song. The Other Adam Schiff, who had previously thwarted all other attempts on his life, was being led toward the ballroom doors by three men, where Mikka and Sherri opened them and watched as Schiff was walked outside. They closed the doors and that was that.

Munch had found a chair and was sitting on it, watching in silence at everything going on. The band was still playing their best, God bless them, though the entire room was starting to lose their minds. Munch was at a loss as to why everyone was acting like this, since he hadn’t added _that_ much THC, even for people who were guzzling multiples cups of lemonade or coffee, like Barba. Speaking of Barba, where had he gone? Once Olivia had swooped into the front of the group at the stage, he had somehow disappeared. Surely he would be strung out somewhere in this room; he had more to drink than everyone else combined. There was no hope for him escaping the side effects of Munch’s drugs.

Suddenly Cabot was in his field of vision, glaring over the tops of her rectangular glasses. Her hands were on her hips and she caught his eyes, her mouth pulled into a firm, tight line.

“What the hell is going on here?” she asked, voice cold.

Munch shrugged and crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t know. Everyone was fine and then … they weren’t.”

“Don’t you play that with me, mister,” she growled. She turned and pointed toward Donnelly who had clambered behind one of the booths and was using a plastic fork to brush the hair of the woman running the booth. Donnelly kept shushing the woman, combing out her red curls with the plastic fork, which had already broken off two tines. “ _Why_ is she doing that? Why are Von and West molesting those doors? Why is Olivia up there, waving her hands in the air like she’s at a Journey tribute concert? _Why is Haden crying?_ ”

“I can’t answer any of those, except for the last one. We know why Haden’s crying.”

Cabot looked over to the man who was still on his back, eyes squeezed shut, blubbering. “Right. Because of Olivia.”

“He never really got over that.”

“Don’t try to distract me,” Cabot growled again, turning on him. “You are one of the only people who haven’t been affected by this and I want to know why!”

“You haven’t been affected either, I notice. What about yourself?”

“I asked you first.”

Munch sipped his water, which was lukewarm, and shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Everyone who is acting strange took either food or drinks from these tables. What was in them?”

“Are you not feeling it?”

“Me? No. I never consume anything at these gatherings.”

“Why not?”

Cabot frowned, her eyes growing steely. “Because, Munch, _this_ could happen. I don’t trust the people I work with closely, why would I trust strangers?”

“Uh, you might want to go help her.” Munch pointed beyond Cabot and she turned to see Donnelly wrestling with the redhead, trying to get the fork back.

Cabot huffed and ran toward the booth, grabbing a hold of Donnelly’s arms and trying to tear her away from the other woman. Munch turned to survey the room again and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw a giant gnome standing next to him. He cleared his throat and stared up at the gnome, who stood silently beside him.

“You, uh … you guys taking a break?”

There was no answer. Strangely, music could still be heard. Munch looked to the stage and saw that the band was still playing; all four of the gnomes and the final guy in his regular outfit.

“Were there originally six of you?”

No answer.

Munch stood and crushed his paper cup, lobbing it into a trash bin beside the food table. “You should probably get back on stage. Your band is probably missing you.”

Still, nothing.

_What’s this guy’s problem? Oh. What … what if he can’t talk? What if he can’t hear? I look like a douche now._

“Sorry,” Munch said, wiping his hands on his jacket. “Uh … can I help you?”

Nothing. Right.

Munch was starting to slide away when he was confronted by a group of people. Sonny, Novak, and Peter Stone all gravitated toward him, like he would have all the answers. They shuffled toward him unsettlingly, and he ended up standing beside the mute gnome again.

“Guys, guys, what?” Munch finally asked, throwing out his hands to stop them from advancing any farther.

“Some’in is off,” Sonny said, gazing all around the room with wide eyes. “I mean … it’s beautiful but it’s … wow. Is that Cher? Oh, no, it’s just a liger in a handsome hat.”

Peter Stone held a clipboard and his face was pale, like he had seen things no man should see. Judging from how everyone was acting, he probably had. He motioned toward the gnome, face grim. “Where have you been?! The band has been playing all night without you! You should be up on stage, not out here!”

No answer. At least Munch now knew that the gnome wasn’t ignoring _just_ him.

Cabot stumbled over to the group, grabbing Donnelly by the ear. “Please tell me at least _one_ of you is sane.”

Sonny raised his hand but it was to point at the ceiling and then gasp softly. “It’s a butterfly an’ I like that it’s a real applesauce eater.”

Cabot stared at him and then slowly turned to Munch, her annoyance now a mask of pure rage. “What did you do?”

“I —” Munch threw up his hands again, “Why are you blaming me?”

“Because we know you,” Cabot said through gritted teeth. “I saw you over at the drink table before everyone started acting like this. _What did you do_?”

“Has anyone seen Barba?” Peter Stone finally asked, sounding desperate. “He should have been here an hour ago. We’re presenting awards at the end of the night and he’s got to be on stage soon.”

“I don’t think we’re presenting anything,” Cabot snapped, “except a lawsuit filed against Munch and whatever he did to these people!”

Suddenly there came a muffled voice beside them saying, “I’m right here.”

They all whipped around to stare in horror at the gnome suit. Well, not all of them. Donnelly was stroking the broken plastic fork she still clutched in her hands, Sonny was whispering sweet nothings to the applesauce-eating butterfly dangling from the ceiling, and Novak was trying to peek at Peter’s clipboard.

“Jeez, Barba,” Munch said, straightening his jacket and pretending to relax, “we thought you were the hired help. What are you doing in there?”

“Who … Who hires a gnome mascot for a function like this? For attorneys?” Cabot seethed, her patience wearing so thin it was see-through now.

Peter quietly made a note on his checklist. “No gnome mascots next year … Penguins, maybe?”

Novak nodded sagely and added, “Penguins are good. Are you thinking … r-real penguins? Or mascots? If we … If we do real ones, they can do that little Mary Poppins dance.”

Cabot stared at Munch and waved her hand toward Peter and Novak.

“Hey,” Munch said defensively, “he hired them weeks ago, before I even had the thought to spike the drinks — oh.”

“You _did_ do something! What did you put in the drinks?”

Munch sighed and dug through his pockets, pulling out the plastic bag. “I just added a few THC capsules, nothing over the top.”

“Well, obviously you added way too many because there’s no way that everyone would be acting like this if they were all moderately high.” She snatched the bag out of his hands and dumped the remaining pills into her palm, examining them. She narrowed her eyes at the pills and then looked up at Munch. “Are you sure these are marijuana capsules?”

“Sure, I take them all the time.”

She ground her teeth and muttered, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Munch, please, I’m not an expert in this sort of thing. Take a look at these and tell me what they are. I refuse to believe that THC caused _this_.” She motioned around the room.

Things had gotten worse. Olivia had taken off her jacket and shirt and had thrown them on stage, then curled up on the floor with five other people in a circle, everyone with their heads resting on another’s stomach. Hardwicke, Greylek, and Marlowe were now chanting something and swinging their hands back and forth. It looked rather … witchcraft. Of course, that could have been completely normal behavior for them considering how witchy they were to the detectives on a daily basis. Von and West were still by the doors, but they had collapsed and were resting their heads against the wall, stroking the doors and fondling the hinges. The men who had dragged off Just Another Adam Schiff had returned, hands stained with what could have been blood or what could have been raspberry jelly, and really there was no way to tell from this distance, and That Other Adam Schiff was not with them and the men kept muttering, “Finally, finally” but it was probably unrelated.

Godspeed the band because they were not stopping for anything. Though there was one moment where the gnome-less member looked across the crowd, spotted Barba in the gnome suit, and made a slicing motion across his throat, but that too was probably nothing to worry about. Obviously Rafael was not worried because he waddled out to the dance floor and stood there, bobbing side to side, the fake beard swaying, the hat careening around the gnome’s structured head. A few people clung to him, pawing at the gnome’s face and stroking its beard. Olivia spotted him and cried, asking why the dwarf had grown so big. Sonny was smart enough not to wander; he plopped himself in Munch’s old chair and continued to stare up at the ceiling.

Munch took the pills from Cabot and looked through them, “Yeah, this is THC.”

“And you’re sure that’s what you put in the drinks?”

“Yes, I am,” Munch said. “I know how to tell the difference between —” He shoved his hand into his pocket to hide the bag and was surprised to find another baggy in there already. His eyebrows knit together as he pulled out the other bag, looking at it. He held both bags in his hands, staring at them. One bag was full of pills, the other only had a few pills but had more than a dozen empty capsules. He stared blankly at them, his mind turning. “Uh …”

“What? What are those? Is that what you put in the coffee?” Cabot asked, pointing toward the second bag.

Munch put away the THC bag and emptied the capsules and other pills into his hand, sorting through them. His face paled but he tried to play it off by dumping the contents back in the bag and hiding it in his pocket.

“Munch? What is it? What were they?”

“Uh … um, I may have … I may have mixed up the bags.”

“And?” Cabot prompted, her eyes boring straight through him.

“And … I may not have put THC in the coffee.”

“What did you put in it?”

Munch patted his pocket, feeling the pills under the fabric. He cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd.

“It makes sense,” he said quietly.

He looked to Barba who was being slowly spun in circles by a group of people, some of whom had assumed a kneeling position around him, asking for forgiveness or when their presents would be delivered. He then looked to Sonny who was nuzzling his face into his golden-yellow tie. Sonya had climbed off the table and was now army crawling across the floor, giving herself commands and not following through with them. Her AA sponsor was staring into his cup, eyes glassy, shoulders slumped. A few people had huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, crying, refusing to look at anyone else while they whispered, “It knows, it can see us” over and over.

“What makes sense?” Cabot demanded.

Novak snatched the clipboard and pen from Peter’s hand, scribbling some type of drawing across the pages. “I like this Fluffernutter, it’s a good sounding color.”

Peter grabbed the clipboard and pen, whimpering at the marks all across his notes. “I can’t read any of this! These are important! It has the entire schedule for the night and notes for next year! Casey, I can’t believe you’d do this.”

“Casey?” Novak said slowly, “I’m not trying a case, it’s not even July.”

Cabot grabbed Munch’s lapels and pulled him close, “Tell me what you did, or I’ll make you sorry you ever left Baltimore.”

“I might have mixed up the bags.”

She dug her nails deeper into his lapels. “What do you mean you mixed them up? What did you give them?”

“I’m not entirely sure —”

“What do you mean?! How do you not know what kind of drugs you have?!”

“Well, I might have a lot — but I thought I only brought one kind! The one I usually have on me. I guess I grabbed another bag, too, and that’s what I put in the drinks. It could be one of two things …”

“What two things?”

“It could have been mushrooms …”

“Good Lord,” Cabot said.

“Or … it might have been …”

“… been what?”

“… LSD?”

If looks could kill, Munch would have been retroactively dead for about six months.

“ _LSD_?” Cabot hissed, pulling Munch even closer to her face so he couldn’t turn away. “You laced our drinks with LSD?”

“Possibly. Maybe mushrooms. Maybe … both.”

“ _Both_?”

“I’m not entirely sure what was in the bag and sometimes — sometimes they can get jumbled into one bag.”

“Do you — do you even realize what that’ll do to these people?”

“I can already see what it’s doing,” he began, trying to sound calm.

“How can you not tell those two apart? Mushrooms and LSD? And how can you mix them up with _marijuana_? I thought you _knew_ these things!”

“Well, I wasn’t really paying attention when I added them —”

Cabot released Munch for a brief moment, only to grab one of his shoulders and turn him to look toward the group. “Half of these people don’t even know what planet they’re on, that group over there is screaming like they’ve just seen Hell and are being dragged into it, and those three,” she pointed toward Hardwicke, Marlowe, and Greylek, who were still holding hands and chanting, “are the closest thing we’re going to see to a witch revival. It’s like another Salem up in here!”

“Did you …” Novak turned to him, her eyes wide but unfocused, “did you _Salem_ us?”

It was amazing how attorneys had the knack of turning proper nouns into verbs. Salem’d. Monica Lewinsky’d. Just verbing all over the place, inventing new words like they were Shakespeare and the English-language dictionary meant nothing, _nothing I tell you_.

Munch sighed heavily as he realized he finally had to accept responsibility for what had happened since it, well, was his fault. He planted his hands on Cabot’s shoulders and looked her in the eye.

“Don’t worry, Alex. I’ll take care of this. You just relax and —”

“Relax? How can I relax? You drugged the entire DA’s office, and then some. What are we going to do with them? How long is this going to last?”

“That’s why I told you to relax. I know what to do. You just sit here in this chair, Sonny move! Let Alex sit there!”

Sonny made no signs of moving so Munch grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him to his feet, pushing him toward the corner.

“Stay there, Carisi. Here, Alex. Sit here and just let me take care of things, okay?”

Alex glowered at him as she sank into the chair, crossing her arms. “You better fix this.”

“I got this,” he said, holding up his hands. Munch made his way to the center of the ballroom where the majority of people had convened, and pushed through the groups, nearly tripping on the people splayed out all over the ground. A few reached out and grabbed his ankles, asking him where he was going. “To the front,” he said, trying to shake them off.

A couple let go limply, rolling over onto their sides to cup each other’s faces. One clung to him, though, and he had to drag her across the floor painstakingly slow. On his way there, he passed by Barba who was still wearing the gnome suit, sans the giant head.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

Barba turned to look at him, his hair wild like someone had run their hands through it carelessly. “Someone took my head,” he said quietly.

“I can see that. Why?”

Rafael slowly wobbled in a circle, looking around the room for the missing head. When he got back around facing Munch, he looked surprised but shrugged. “Someone took my head,” he said again.

“Barba, I knew you were uptight when I met you, but I have to say that you are the most boring person I’ve met, even when tripping acid. Do you ever have _any_ fun?”

Barba thought for a moment, his eyes shifting over the groups of people, then down to those who were still lying around him like he were some sort of gnome deity. He reached out to pet the head of one young woman, but he ended up smacking her across the face with the gnome’s large hands.

“It’s a real trouble trying to be that good guy, since all I want to do is be a pizza. Someone took my head.”

“I swear, if you say that one more time,” Munch muttered, finally throwing off the woman clutching his foot and marching up to the stage. The band, in their sweaty gnome-suited glory, _was still playing_. Munch snatched a microphone from the lead singer and waved his hands at them eagerly. “You guys can go, obviously there isn’t a need for you right now.”

“The dude paid us for the entire night,” came the muffled voice of the lead singer. “We wanna give people their money’s worth.”

“Trust me, no one is going to notice if you stop playing. Uh …” He looked out over the crowd and it seemed worse from up here. How did these guys still think they should be playing? Maybe it was hard to see from behind the giant gnome heads. “Maybe you guys should take a break. Go get yourself a drink over at the refreshment table. It’ll help you forget all of this happened.”

The members turned to look at each other, shrugged, and waddled off the stage. The singular member without the gnome costume cast another dirty look toward Rafael and made another throat-slitting motion before huffing backstage.

“Okay, everyone,” Munch said into the microphone, though he had little hope anyone was listening to him. “I’m John Munch, as most of you know. Well, some of you. Not that it really matters right now what my name is. What’s important is … that we all have a safe trip. So, I’m here to serve as your guide.” He threw a look to Cabot who seemed about ready to strangle him with her bare hands in front of everyone. That would probably be best. “Could we get someone to turn off the lights, please? Miss Von, Miss West, since you’re over there — and you’re not even listening.”

“I got it!”

Munch looked over to see Peter Stone sprinting across the ballroom, eager to be helpful. He slapped off the lights and gave a thumbs up to Munch.

“Thanks. Now, if everyone would just lie on the floor, on their backs or even on their left sides. You can hold hands if you want, but don’t lie on top of one another, and give each other enough room to breathe. Hey, you in the back, come on — just lie down and listen, will you?”

Peter began moving through the crowd, taking people by the shoulders and guiding them to the floor, helping them arrange themselves in chaotic rows of sprawled limbs and incessant babbling. At this point, the vendors had quickly packed up their belongings and were escaping through the double doors. Just outside, they could hear bloodcurdling screams and wailing. Alex jumped from her seat but hesitated to leave her position, from where she could monitor Munch.

Peter went to investigate and when he came back, he waved his hand through the air to dispel any worry and called out, “It’s okay! They just found Schiff. He’s dead.”

Alex stared at him from across the room before shouting, “That’s _not_ okay!”

“Sure it is, they’ve been trying to kill him for the last forty years. We all saw it coming.”

“Murder isn’t okay, Peter! This is why we’re attorneys!”

Peter shrugged and closed the doors, then he stood at the far end of the ballroom and gave Munch another thumbs up.

“Okay …” Munch cleared his throat and raised his hands out toward the group. “I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not entirely sure what you all took, but I have an idea, so I’ll get you through this and to the other side without any issues. Since I’m sure this’ll be the first time for many of you, I’ll be here until all of you are safe and back to normal. So just listen to my voice and we should all come out of this okay.”

There weren’t many responses, but Munch expected that. He really should have started guiding them before they had even had a first taste of whatever drug they had all ingested. This would be a hard one to turn around, especially for the people clearly already having a bad trip. Peter had trouble wrangling them out of the corner and onto the floor, and they were still crying and shaking their heads but at least they had stopped muttering to themselves.

“How long will this last?” Alex asked, eying him suspiciously. “I mean, we only rented the ballroom until midnight.”

“Right.” Munch looked around the room for a clock but found none. “Well, it can last anywhere from six hours —”

“ _Six hours_?” Alex cried, and Munch could see how large her eyes were even from the stage.

“— to twelve or fifteen hours.”

Alex fell silent, just staring at him. Then she slowly sat down in the chair and stared at her hands. Munch already knew what she was thinking. She didn’t want to be stuck in that ballroom with those people for another twelve hours. Hopefully, most of these people would have a short, but eye-opening, trip and be on their way before they were scheduled to pack up and leave. Of course, there was no way of knowing how much each person had ingested or what their individual trip would be like. He also had no idea where most of these people lived or how he was going to get them home.

“One thing at a time,” he muttered to himself. “Okay, everyone, just listen to my voice and do what I say …”

Munch began his guiding of the group, trying hard to concentrate on what he was saying since it was hard not to stare at Barba, who had managed to lie down on the floor _still in the gnome suit_ , and was rolling from side to side, while the people around him tried to prop him on his back. He would roll to the left, and those people would roll him back. He would roll to the right, and _those_ people would roll him back. His oversized shoes flopped around and kicked a few people in the head, but they seemed more curious than perturbed about it. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stay put and kept rolling side to side. Aside from those who were playing ping pong with him on the ground, no one else seemed to notice the disturbance.

A quick glance to the right and Munch could see Alex with her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. She was crying. He didn’t blame her.

Fifteen minutes into his newfound position as an Acid Trip Guide, the double doors flew open and someone barged into the room. Light flooded into the ballroom and Munch shaded his eyes to see who had stumbled upon this, admittedly, strange event.

“Where’s Munch?” came a familiar voice.

Fin.

Alex pointed to the stage and Fin looked over, giving him an irritated look.

“Munch, what are you doing? Did you forget that we were gonna go to the theatre? You forced me to agree to go with you because no one else would!”

“Sorry, Fin, I’m in the middle of something.”

“I can see that. What the hell is going on?”

“Drugs,” Alex called across the room, shaking her head and sobbing, “he put drugs in all their drinks!”

Fin squinted his eyes at Alex and then to Munch. “What is she on about?”

“Unfortunately, my friend, she isn’t _on_ anything. But, there may have been a mix-up,” Munch began slowly. “Anyway, we’re doing a guided trip together. We won’t be going to the theatre tonight.”

Fin looked around the room, making a face. His eyes landed on Barba, still rolling around in his gnome suit; Olivia, shirtless and giggling, reciting nonsensical lyrics and humming to music that was no longer playing; Sonny and Rollins staring into each other’s eyes and nodding slowly, quietly talking about Sonny’s imaginary butterfly which had manifested into some sort of large eagle thing; Haden still crying; and the majority of the ADAs and judges staring at the ceiling and sweeping their hands around in the air, as if trying to catch something that eluded their grasp.

“Again?” Fin said, irritation rising in his voice. “Freaking again?”

“Again? What do you mean again?” Cabot said shakily.

“This is a pretty regular occurrence, Alex. Don’t worry about it. Munch knows what he’s doing.”

“He _knows_ what he’s doing? He doesn’t even know what he gave them! Shouldn’t we call someone? A hospital? Captain Cragen? People need to know this is happening!”

“Nah,” Fin said, closing the doors and striding across the ballroom. “It’ll be over in a few hours. Take a seat and enjoy the show.”

“Enjoy the show? How can you say that?”

“Are you just gonna repeat everything I’m saying? There’s nothing to be done. Just gotta let the drugs take their course. Munch is a good guide. He knows how to keep people from having bad trips. So I’ve seen and heard.” Fin grabbed a paper cup and started filling it with lemonade. Cabot jumped to her feet and knocked the cup out of his hands.

“I wouldn’t.”

Fin rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning back against the table. “Relax, Alex. I’ve known Munch longer than you have. It’ll be fine.”

“Didn’t you work in Narcotics? _Wasn’t your job to stop stuff like this from happening_? We need to tell someone —”

Fin shrugged. “I ain’t a snitch.”

“No, you’re a cop!”

“Fin! Fin, come help,” Munch said from the stage, waving him over.

“Sorry, counselor, I’ve gotta go.” Fin hurried over to the stage, joining Munch.

Cabot watched in horror as Fin took over the microphone, introducing himself and explaining that he’d take over the verbal guiding while Munch went through the crowd and checked on everyone. Barba had stopped rolling around, and was lying on his left side, kicking his legs and waddling his arms. He could be heard saying, “Next year, I’m the penguin.” At least he was still alive and conscious. He had drunk the most coffee out of everyone in the building. Apparently his cold demeanor and snarky attitude were strong enough to resist overdosing. Maybe, subconsciously, he just didn’t want to die at this event. No one wanted to be _that_ guy who managed to die the same time as Seriously It’s Not _That_ Adam Schiff. Their death would be overshadowed by the fact that the seemingly immortal man had been murdered that night.

“Hey.”

Cabot looked up and saw Peter standing there, two cups filled with lemonade. He handed one to her and smiled.

“What is this for?” she asked, taking the cup and staring at it. Though it looked normal, she could just imagine the liquid drugs swirling around, just waiting to screw with her mind.

“If you can’t beat them, join them.”

“What? Peter, no. We’re not joining them.”

“Suit yourself.” Peter downed his lemonade and then stared expectantly at Cabot.

She sighed and looked around the room. “I honestly thought you were tripping this entire time. You actually hired those gnome guys when you were sober? This entire time, you’ve been _sober_?”

“Yeah, why?”

Shaking her head, she drank the lemonade and tossed the paper cup into the trash can. “Okay, Peter. Lead the way.”

Peter walked her to the center of the room and helped her to the ground; he laid beside her and closed his eyes. “Just listen to what Munch says, and it’ll be fine. We’ll get through it together.”

“Have you … have you done this before?”

“No. But I figure it can’t be all bad. Maybe we’ll all come out of this better attorneys.”

“Yeah, or maybe our brains will be so fried that none of us will practice law again.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe.”

“If we come out of this alive and with all our brain cells, I am definitely going to kill Munch. And Fin.”

“I heard that,” Fin said into the microphone. “Just shut up and let us guide you through your trip, Cabot. You don’t have to worry about anything. It was lemonade, not Kool-Aid.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Fin,” she grumbled, settling against the cold floor, hands folded over her stomach.

Suddenly, the double doors burst open and someone staggered in. From their spot on the floor, they could see that it was The Other Adam Schiff. He stumbled in, one hand pressed against a bleeding wound.

“Alive!” he screeched, waving his other hand in the air. “I’m still alive! You thought you could kill me, but you can’t! I’m one of the longest-running characters in this franchise!”

“Fin, take care of that,” said Munch as he began trying to remove the floppy shoes from Barba’s feet.

“Yeah, got it.” Fin jumped from the stage, crossing the room to grab Schiff by the shoulder and drag him outside. The doors slammed shut and a few moments later there was a loud gunshot that echoed through the building. Fin returned alone and stood on the stage.

“What was that?!” Alex cried, trying to sit up.

Munch pushed her back down to the ground, “It’s fine.”

“I heard a gunshot!”

“That was unrelated,” Fin said, tucking his gun into the back of his trousers. “Anyway, can we move on?”

Munch carefully removed Cabot’s glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “We don’t want you hurting yourself with these, so I’ll keep them safe. How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m lying on a cold floor in a rented building with a bunch of my coworkers and that if we do random drug testing, all of us are getting fired.”

“Okay. What are you seeing right now?”

“Not much. You took my glasses.”

Munch sighed and turned to Peter. “What are _you_ seeing right now?”

Alex turned to Peter who had a curious but dumb look on his face. He smiled and reached out to pat Alex’s hand.

“Poppins dancing penguins,” he said.

“Me too!” came the voice of Novak, who was a few rows over. “The penguins dance really nice.”

“I’m the penguin,” said Rafael, kicking his now-shoeless feet.

“Pop n’ peng and dance away,” said Casey dreamily. “Dance, dance, penguins.”

“Are we sure they aren’t having strokes?” Alex said, looking to Munch. “I thought people didn’t talk that much when they were drugged.”

“Everyone’s different,” Munch said. “Like you.”

“What about me?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Twelve.”

“And what color is the unicorn behind me?”

“Blue. Why?”

“What’s tap dancing on the ceiling?”

“Spiders.”

“Right,” he said. “Just stay put and you’ll be fine.” He stood and moved on to another row.

Alex called out after him, “Wait! I think I misplaced my hands.”

“They’re on your stomach,” he replied without looking at her. “Listen to what Fin says and I promise, you’ll be okay.”

Alex sighed, “As far as I know, all of this has been a dream. I pray to God I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”

“You need alcohol for that,” Fin said. “Now I was serious about shutting up and listening to me.”

“Okay, Fin,” she said, her eyes fluttering between open and close. “I’m trusting you and that baby to take care of me.”

“Baby?” he asked.

Cabot pointed toward the ceiling. Space Baby from _2001, A Space Odyssey_ floated there, while multicolored stars rippled through the wood paneling and drifted down to land on her cheeks, sizzling like Pop Rocks and smelling like strawberry soda. Space Baby turned its large, cold eyes toward her and then drifted away to hover over the rest of the group, looking at each person in turn. The stars turned to streaks of messy oil paints, dripping down all around them, splattering and congealing like day-old grease. Then they rolled up into colorful, flashing worms and crawled over the bodies of everyone there, slithering and sputtering paint flecks all over their skin. Everyone was a beautiful array of warm neon colors, and then the floorboards creaked and cried out like a thousand poppy flowers singing their love song to the wind. The disembodied gnome head from Rafael’s costume rolled through the air after Space Baby, turning to wink at Alex, and then bounding against the walls and floor, its beard wrapping around its head and turning into a thousand paper doves that fluttered to the stage and sparkled like diamonds.

Alex let out a soft laugh and closed her eyes. “That baby sure does know its art.”

Fin huffed and glanced to Munch. “That’s the spirit, Alex. Just lie back and relax.”

Alex had never relaxed before in her life, but if this is what it felt like — being lifted on the glimmering waves of a river and plummeting up through orange clouds to be kissed on the face by featureless blobs of color that had tinny cymbals for voices while Fin and Munch guided her toward a low valley where Peter was waiting, his body expanding and shrinking, his skin rapidly going through the color wheel — then she would have to relax more often.

Through the whales singing and the drumming heartbeat of the mountain she was climbing, she could hear the soft voice of Rafael break through, serious but quiet.

He pointed at the sky but all Alex saw was the mountain. Then, out of the clouds came the gnome’s face, smiling and winking and rolling down the cliffs.

“Oh,” Rafael said. “There’s my head.”


End file.
